


Conversely Inverse

by ghostknight



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Body Swap, M/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Witchcraft, Slow Burn, making up stuff about magic in thedas because i dont want to do too much research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostknight/pseuds/ghostknight
Summary: Renard is kind of decent at a lot of things, like college, dance, and witchcraft. Though in general, he's bad at life, or maybe life is bad to him, as evidenced by a premonition he has that a wolf is going to mess him up. Not to mention that according to his ancestry he is, supposedly, the host to a fox spirit. Things aren't getting any better when he manages to fall into a world he thought existed only in fiction and when he arrives he isn't even himself.





	1. Toto, we're not in Canadansas anymore

_ Two children holding hands scuttle around a dark house giggling. A woman with twinkling eyes and creases in her face beckons them towards her. Once they settle on cushions and blankets on the floor she hands them each a mug filled with warm milk and just a drop of coffee. _

_ “Now children, are you ready to hear about the spirit fox?” asks the woman and the children nod eagerly.  _

_ “Tell us Abuelita, tell us!”  _

_ As she begins to speak the little girl leans against her older brothers shoulder and he sits chin in his hands, enraptured. “Once upon a time, in a land that bordered the warm Caribbean, there was a young girl whose family were healers. Those in the healing arts occasionally had abilities that extended beyond normal and this girl was one of those. She had the ability to see between the worlds. One night in a dream she saw a fox caught in a trap, and upon setting it free it offered her a gift. It would imbue her with its cleverness and cunning and even it’s own spirit magic. She accepted and the fox came to live within her soul. She went on to do many great things and when the time came and she chose to bear her first child, the fox’s abilities passed on to her daughter and so it was for each of her descendants’ first born children. That girl was your great great great and many more greats grandmother.” The siblings gasped in delight, but it was immediately struck into contrast by a sigh from behind. The children whip their heads around to see their mother standing over them. _

_ “Mami, why do you insist on perpetuating this silliness?” She asks.  _

_ “Ay, let an abuela tell her grandchildren a story!” Abuela turns back to the children, “But fine, we are done for tonight anyway. Off you go to bed, follow your mother.” Just as the boy was about to follow his little sister out of the room, his abuela calls him back. “Renard.” _

_ “Yes, Abuelita?” _

_ “For your mother this is just a story now, she has not had an easy life and now she just wants to settle with her children, but once, she too believed. So remember the fox is real, and it’s magic is in you, just as it was in your mother.” _

 

The warm, deep, dark sleep that envelops him blows off of him as a howl tears through his dreams. Renard jolts awake sitting up perfectly straight and still, adrenaline pulsing through his system as he holds his breath.

It takes him a moment to realize the noise is coming from inside his dingy one room flat and another moment to realize it isn’t an intruder. He huffs, flinging his blankets aside and is about to storm into his living area when he pauses and pulls the thickest blanket over his shoulders to ward off the chill that is already nipping at his bare feet.

“Chickita?” He calls out, “Why is there a wolf howling in my apartment?” His husky does not reply, but the howling stops. As he steps cautiously into his living space, wary of objects strewn on the floor, Chicken pads up to him, panting happily. Renard tries to give her an admonishing look, but it’s probably too dark in the room to have an effect. “Really, howling? Come on, you’ve never done that before, why now? You know how hard it was to get a place where I could keep you...” Renard grumbles, making his way to the window to search for a cause. It’s actually brighter than he expected for one in the morning or whatever time it is. He can see outside perfectly well, it's white, silent, and peaceful, looking for all the world like a Christmas postcard. Then Renard looks up and sighs. There hanging above the scene is a full moon, dramatically framed by some passing clouds. “This wolf thing is getting ridiculous.”

He’s tired, but he can’t bring himself to go to sleep and he’s not in the mood for video games, or TV either, so he flips the lights in his kitchenette, pulls his black hair into a ponytail and starts heating water for tea. As he waits Renard begins shoving scattered tarot and oracle cards to the side of his table. They are the only obvious sign of the steady eclectic witchcraft practice he keeps up. He doesn’t usually have people over so no one knows about it, especially not his family. They hardly need more reasons to be disappointed in him. 

It’s just something he does for himself, it brings him a sort of peace to go through the motions of reading cards, meditating, cleansing supplies, drawing sigils and the like. ‘And now it’s doing the opposite. It’s haunting me. I keep seeing wolves in everything I do.’ He kind of wants to cry, but maybe that’s the fatigue talking. ‘Fucking wolf.’

He sees wolves in the texts he reads for classes, in the divination readings, one of the songs in his contemporary dance class was fucking “wolf inspired” or whatever. He stopped meditating because every time he tried last week he kept getting the impression of a wolf running through his mind. Maybe it’s his own fault, maybe he’s thought himself into a hole, but now it's popping up everywhere and he can’t help but think it isn’t a coincidence. He has considered it’s a friendly wolf, a guide or familiar or something. But the readings say otherwise. In fact everything he’s tried to use to learn about the wolf issue has told him the same thing. The wolf is gonna come into his life and it’s gonna fuck shit up. Well, not in so many words, but that's the general idea.

He spends a good ten-twenty minutes sipping tea and petting Chicken. After that he was ready for sleep again, but things don’t always work out like that do they?

“Oh, well if it isn't the Grimm!” He almost wants to laugh. Renard doesn’t even read tea leaves, but of course the one time he  glance into the bottom of his mug he sees a creepy ass dog, generally associated with death and passing into the afterlife. ‘This shit is straight out of Harry Potter’. He wonders with dark humor if this means he’s becoming a werewolf, wouldn’t that be hilarious.

He slams his mug down with a huff. He stands up a little too fast and has to snatch his chair back from its collision with the floor. Chicken is immediately on edge, so Renard shushes her a little before ditching his blanket and throwing his thick coat over the sweatpants and hoodie that serve as his pajamas. The boots get pulled on next and after giving Chicken a good bye ruffling of her fur, he’s out the door. He needs to walk off this stupid wolf symbolism or foreshadowing or  _ whatever _ that’s been seeping into his life. 

There’s no one around. His flat is in one of many student apartments in the area, just on the outskirts of campus. Most everyone is home for the break though and it’s pretty late, so his boots crunching through the snow are the only ones. It’s not completely silent, but the Canadian winters are pretty good at keeping the noise indoors, so besides the hum of the occasional car on one of the main streets, everything is hushed. The muffled sounds in tandem with the moonlight and ambiance of the yellow light of the streetlamps create a wallowing surreal, empty feeling in his chest, everything seems to have paused. The park he is heading into is the same, frozen in literally every way possible. Only the sharp cold stinging at his cheeks and nose reminded him he shouldn’t stay for too long. He’d probably only make one turn around the park on the path he and Chicken take daily (when he sets her loose to run off her energy), and head back. 

Once his toes start to go numb, Renard decides he’s had enough of wandering and begins to follow the meandering path back towards his flat. He gets caught up watching his breath puff up before him and he trips like the great dancer he is, his foot sinking too far into the snow. “Fuck!” His gloved hands catch him and he growls. ‘Some shitty night I’m having’ But as he sighs and opens his eyes he notices the snow reflecting soft green light.

A translucent, green, glowing...something, is standing over him. When he catches its eyes on him it begins to lope away, only to turn its head back inquisitively a few paces away. Renard squints at it. It looks like...a fox? He scrambles back to his feet. The ghostly fox seems to approve because it trots on again. 

Renard hesitates, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be following weird animals around a park in the middle of the night’ but as he stares at it a bit longer he begins to think. Thanks to the stories he heard in his childhood he’s always considered foxes to be guides in his practices, and this is glowing fox seems pretty fucking magical. ‘Ah fuck it’ he thinks as he pulls himself into a light jog. ‘At the very least, it’s not a wolf.’

The fox draws him into the trees at a jog and soon his breath puffing up clouds in front of him. After about a minute his lungs were burning from the cold air being pulled deeply within them and Renard hunched over coughing. As he pushes himself upright he has to squint against the brightness of the snow. Something other than the fox, something brighter, is giving off a green light between the trees and the fox seems to have disappeared. He approaches with small steps that crunch in the snow. 

Something is in the air? The thing is...weird. It’s warping in a way that Renard’s brain shies away from. Like a hole that’s folding in on itself, but somehow giving off light that is harsh at its center and fuzzy at the edges. Renard rubs at his temples to push away the ache starting behind his eyes. ‘What the fuck’. If the wind wasn’t trying to bite his nose off he wouldn’t believe he was awake.

He glances around the wooded area for any sign he isn’t the only person seeing this. There is no one else. It’s silent except, there is a vague whispering floating around, sounding like it’s moving in a way that makes it unintelligible to him.

Renard slowly circles the thing, trying to get some sense for what it is, but the longer he looks at it the more his head throbs. He stops and looks down at his gloved hands, watching how the light plays off his fingers, it seems almost liquid. Without thinking he reaches his hand out towards the thing. 

And then it’s pulling at him, and he can’t pull away. Panic shoots through him, hot and then cold, but he doesn't have time to struggle, because his vision flashes white and green. His throat is raw, but he can’t hear himself scream. And then nothing.

* * *

 

Renard sits up and shouts in alarm, then groans as he is hit with vertigo. Every single muscle in his body burns and his head pounds. Slowly he lowers himself back down onto the bed, groaning. ‘Jesus, do I feel like shit. What the fuck did I do?’

He pushes to recall something, anything.  _ Food and water pressed against his lips weakly he opens his mouth but his eyelids are cemented shut. Pain everywhere. Something cold pressed to his head. Being carried. Between these bouts of consciousness is the dark mass of dreams that pressed against him, wrapping him in their folds and drawing him down. _ Past that pain shoots past his eyelids as he tries to remember and he winces.

The inside of his mouth, throat and nose feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw with sandpaper, so he reaches for the mug on the table next to his cot. As he draws it towards him the water inside spills over the rim wildly and he has to use both hands to steady their shaking. Just before he takes a sip he catches a face in the reflection and freezes as a wave of panic and dizziness wash over him. He lets his head fall back and breathes deeply, then he chances a look back into the water. Nausea rolls over him, and he nearly spills the water over himself again. The face is not his, but it moves when he does, and looks as frightened and beat up as he feels. He brings a hand up to feel at his face, and notices his hands aren’t his either. They’re paler (something he’d attributed to feeling like shit, not  _ whatever _ this is) and also more slender. The nausea crashes into him again, twisting and roiling in his gut and then rising up his esophagus and this time Renard doubles over spilling the contents of his stomach into a conveniently placed bucket next to him. 

Everything feels wrong and bad and disjointed. He lays back down and tried not to think about the face of the elf he seemed to be wearing. Worse was that it was a face he recognized. His throat burns and his mouth is filled with foulness. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and he hiccups pathetically. Had he been spending too much time playing video games lately? Is that why he was hallucinating this? ‘Please let this be a weird fever dream, where I won’t wake up next time looking like fucking Solas, but with head trauma. Please…I’ll never play another video game in my life’ The burning in his throat did little to convince him that his plea would be answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has been a long time coming, I'm finally releasing it into the wild. I hope you enjoy this homage to the favorite tropes of my middle school years, the modern oc in a fictional world and the body swap, except now with a Venezuelan/european queer witch because I just want protags who are like me :^)  
> Additonally, I've proofread this so many times, but I'm not great at catching my own typos, so if you found any, I'm sorry.
> 
> thanks for stopping by, I'd love to hear from you if you got this far!!


	2. Sleep is for the Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renard wakes up properly

The next few times Renard woke up, he discovered that this was no terrible nightmare, but in fact his new fun reality. He remembers a bit more of what happened, but he can’t make any sense of it. On top of that, he keeps waking up in a panic, haunted by dreams he can’t seem to remember. Some wake ups were more lucid than others. 

He’s been steadily awake for two maybe three hours now. He’s gotten a good look at where he is and it seems to be some sort of medical tent? There’s one other sick guy sleeping a few cots away and there’s been a doctor or nurse of some sort coming in and out, to change Renard’s bandages and to administer terribly tasting potions. He hasn’t really said much his caretaker under the guise of being too ill to do so, and to be honest he really doesn’t need to pretend. He feels like he fell off a cliff.

Just as he’s about to drift off to sleep again he hears voices approaching. Two dwarves enter, one redhead wearing a bright eccentric outfit and the other a stouter brunette with wild hair and hints of stubble tracing over her lips and cheeks. She’s wearing the pale beige tunic and trousers Renard has come to associate with the inquisitor from hours of gameplay.

“Hey, Chuckles, we heard you were doing better.”

“‘Better’ is a relative term”, he replied flatly, as he pushed himself up to sit. The voice that came from his mouth was so bizarre to him, soft and almost melodic? It almost made him forget it was speaking his words. Then panic shot through him as he realized he had spoken without thinking. He bites his tongue sharply to stop a shuddering breath from escaping and focuses on keeping his expression neutral. Or at least looking mildly ill. In a world where people were constantly afraid of mages becoming possessed, Solas, an apostate, acting anything out of the ordinary could spell a nasty smiting for Renard. Even if this does turn out to be some kind of hallucination, he’d rather not take any risks.

To his relief the inquisitorial looking dwarf grinned at him, “Ah, that’s the old Solas I know. Glad to have you back in the world of the living. You really scared us out there.” 

He took a deep breath and focused on everything he remembered about Solas before opening his mouth again, “I apologize, Inquisitor, it was not my intention to worry you.”

Varric laughed at that, “Ha! Getting knocked on your head’s made you stiffer than usual!” Renard tries not to flinch at that, “‘not my intention to worry you’ he says! As if you could’ve done anything about it, I don’t think you could even  _ try _ to take a tumble like that.”

“I...uh. What exactly happened?”

The inquisitor raised an eyebrow, “You mean you don’t remember?”

“Very little, and most of it after the fact.” 

Varric and the inquisitor exchange glances. “You could say we encountered a...feisty rift, it discharged in our faces and blew us all backwards. Most of us were fine, minor injuries, but you hit your head and started screaming, til you passed out…”

Varric picked it up from there, “Then we had to haul your ass all the way back up to Skyhold, luckily the horses were all right.”

“I see.” Renard pauses and holds his breath for a moment, glancing down at his hands, “About the rift. Is there anything more you noticed about it?” That’s something Solas would be interested in, right?

“Hmm, well, it didn’t want to close until after it blew up, I really had to fight it with the anchor. That’s all, though.” Great, now what is he supposed to say? Renard tries to focus on looking contemplative, the one year of being a theater major couldn’t save him from this nightmare improv session. 

“...Curious. Well, as much as I, uh, would be interested in studying this...phenomenon, let’s hope it doesn’t, ah, happen again.” God every sentence is a battle. He’d better get used to spewing utter bullshit and making it sound like it was coming out of the mouth of some posh professor.

“Ha, yeah.” The inquisitor fixed him with a stern look, but her eyes sparkled, “No more cracking that shiny head of yours on any rocks, or else.”

Renard huffs at that, “No promises.” Cautiously he moves his legs off the cot, and moves to push himself to stand. “I think it’s about time I returned to my own...quarters.” Quarters? Was that the right word? That sounds fancy right--As soon as he tried to straighten up his thoughts cut off as the room started to lurch like waves off the ocean. It took him a hot minute to realize he was teetering dangerously. Varric and the inquisitor rush over to support him.

“Whoa there Chuckles, not so fast.”

“Solas, maybe you ought to stay here a little longer?” Renard struggles to focus on the inquisitor’s face as he tries to find his feet.

“Inquisitor...please?” He must be looking absolutely pathetic, because she gives him a pitying look and nods.

“Alright.” She turns to the entrance and waves over a healer, “Help Solas back to his room, would you?” After he’d been passed off to the healer, whom Renard was now leaning heavily on, she turns back to him. “I’ll make sure some food gets sent up to you, get some rest.”

Renard offers her a curt nod, “Thank you.” And he stumbles off with the healer. 

 

After thanking the man heartily Renard collapses onto the bed in Solas’s room. Halfway there he had begun to regain his sense of balance, but he kept lurching this way and that on purpose, because he had no clue where Solas’s room was meant to be and hoped that his instability could cover for the missing knowledge that normally would have had him taking the right turns. Still, he didn’t feel like he could, say, outrun any seekers or templars who might think he’s possessed.

He sighs and lifts his hands to look at them again. They really were a lot paler, with more slender fingers. Weird. Watching them too long makes Renard’s stomach churn, so he drops them and closes his eyes. 

 

...And he shoots up panting with warping green flashes behind his eyelids. He flails for a moment, then when he sees his unfamiliar limbs he remembers where he is. Renard takes a moment to breathe through the frustrated screaming lodged in the bottom of his throat and the watering in his eyes. “Fuuuuuck,” he sighs leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. 

Looking at the low light seeping through the window it must only be an hour or so since he got to Solas’ room. At the foot of the door there is a tray with food on it. It seems the inquisitor kept her word.

Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet, for a second he sways, but then finds his center. Slowly he takes wobbling steps around the room. His weight is settled on his body all the wrong ways. He feels like he’s constantly trying to balance on one of those yoga balls. He takes a few steps around the room and after a bit he feels ready to take it up a notch. He reaches his arms up and then bends over reaching for his toes. Everything tilts, Renard stumbles, flails and falls backwards. Renard hisses and rubs at his tailbone. Resting his head on his knees, he tries not to dwell on the fact that he would be like this for an indefinite amount of time.

After a few minutes of listening to the muffled sounds of skyhold, he collects himself and carefully makes his way over to the tray of food. Once he’s eaten what feels like a safe amount of food considering his earlier nausea, he attempts sleep again. But each time a peaceful rest seems upon him he is shocked awake by flashes of nightmares, viscously shifting visions which unsettle his equilibrium. Finally, he gives up on rest and paces the length of the room hoping to adjust to the momentum of this new body. He paces for the rest of the night, until a few hours before dawn his exhausted mind slips into a fitful sleep with his eyes practically half open to protect him from the darkness within his dreams.

 

The light of dawn strikes Skyhold like it was painted in long brushstrokes of orange and yellow. Renard wakes from his half-sleep, tired and bedraggled. The exhaustion pulling at his eyelids is as though he had never slept at all. He rises and eventually, after swaying into his equilibrium, he stands before a mid sized mirror mounted above a chest and stares intently at his reflection. 

It’s unnerving how its so obviously not him but every single twitch and minute movement is matched exactly. He rotates his head around maintaining eye contact and shudders, he’s beginning to feel nauseous again. He closes his eyes and breathes. When he opens them again he grins slightly, a laugh bubbling from his chest and whispers to this Solas in the mirror, “I know your secrets.” And then he laughs more, doubling over, drunk on sleeplessness and how completely ridiculous he feels. “God this sucks,” he half chuckles, half groans, and moves to run his fingers through his hair only to meet the prickle of scalp-stubble and the edge of the bandage still wrapped around his head, “Fuck it sucks so much”. He pulls the blanket off his bed and throws it over the mirror. No more of that shit.

After eating what remains of yesterday’s meal, and poorly changing his bandage with supplies the healer left with him, he cautiously peeks out of the room. He probably could get away with staying in for another day or two on the excuse of illness, but he has a feeling he’ll go stir crazy just sitting in the room, especially since he can’t seem to sleep properly. On the other hand, going out means more pretending to be Solas. But if he never leaves the room, he’ll never figure out how to get back home and he doubts he’ll make it back into his own body by just bumming around in Solas’s room. 

Hindsight and enough hours poured into  _ Inquisition _ let's Renard know that a fade rift was the cause of his fun little jump through.... Space? Time? Dimensions? Well, luckily, he’s in the stronghold of the inquisition, holder of the foremost knowledge on fade rifts. Unfortunately, the undeniable expert on rifts is missing and Renard has taken possession of his body… Fan-fucking-tastic. But, Renard reasons, Solas must have left behind some kind of notes or research behind, now he just has to get to it. A thorough search of the room during last night’s bout of insomnia didn’t reveal anything of interest, just a change of clothes, a couple of books in a language Renard couldn’t read (maybe elvhen?) and Solas’s staff...okay maybe that’s a little interesting, but he isn’t ready to start messing around with that. So, if there were no notes or anything here, then they must be in the… rotunda (is that what it’s called?) where Solas’s desk is.

Yeah, he decides, he’s got to leave this room and find out how truly fucked he is. So after pacing a bit more to regain his sense of balance and practicing a few Solas-ish expressions (it involves a lot of brow-cocking and looking deep in thought over some topic of immense gravity), he steps out of the room and tries to pretend he’s not scared shitless. After walking a few hallways without anyone trying to talk to him, he gains in confidence.

This isn’t that different from theater, he thinks, as his bare feet meet the cold stone of Skyhold’s floors over and over again. That is, until he turns a corner and nearly bowls over a reverend Mother. 

“Ffff-uh, excuse me...my b- apologies,” he chokes out as he stumbles out of the way...smooth. She looks affronted for a moment, then shakes her head at him and returns to her preaching to the three people gathered around her.

From then on, Renard moves furtively, his head moving on a swivel, not trusting his shaky improvisation to pull him through any more encounters. He sighs with relief when he finally settles at Solas desk at the rotunda. Just getting there was an ordeal, now he has to start on the real work. 

He groans and starts shuffling through a few papers and books left behind on the desk. Scanning all briefly, it didn’t look useful, more elvhen, probably. He certainly couldn’t read them. Pulling open the drawers produces the same effect. Rubbing at his eyes he stands up, the fatigue is already getting to him. Pull it together Renard, you’re a piss poor college student if you can’t even survive an all-nighter, he thinks and ascends the stairs to the library to browse the shelves for something useful. 

Pulling book after book off the shelves yields no results and a frantic fluttering settles in his stomach. He begins to yank volumes off, several at a time, flipping through them at a furious pace. No, not this one, and not this one either! He can’t read any of these  _ fucking  _ books! 

The snap of a book closing startles him out of his panicked state. “Having trouble finding something, Solas?” To his credit, Renard doesn’t flinch, but he does freeze as soon as his eyes meet those of the mage rising out of the armchair tucked into an alcove. Dorian.

“H-hi,” he says it too quietly, and if he hadn’t been holding all these books he would have tried to wave, like an idiot. Renard can’t stop staring, its something like meeting like meeting a celebrity crush,... if that crush was a video game character who told your dumb self insert inquisitor that he loved him. He could kick himself, but he’s too busy being starstruck.

Dorian looks at him quizzically, and then smirks, “I’d heard you hit your head rather hard, if it wasn’t for that hideous bandage, I’d think you’ve finally fallen for my charms and good looks!” Haha, uh oh, uhhh fuck, think of something, quick!

Renard cocks his head, “Well, try not to look too happy about it, or I’ll think all this time you’ve been insulting my wardrobe, you’ve been playing hard to get.” Fuck, was that too flirty? He’s trying to de-escalate this, not make himself look more suspicious! “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I left the volume I’m looking for in my room.” He leaves as quickly as he can, though he fumbles on re-shelving some of the books, and speed walks all the way back to Solas’s quarters, avoiding all of the preaching chantry mothers on the way.

 

He collapses against the door as soon as he arrives, sighing, relieved to be in a private space. 

Fuck, everything sucks.

He can’t read shit, which he hadn’t even considered might be a problem and then, of course, meeting Dorian. Fuck. Renard buries his face in his hands. He should be able to control himself, but everything is falling apart. Usually, when things suck, he just plays hours of Dragon Age. Family drama? Dragon Age. School kicking his ass? Dragon Age. Now what’s he supposed to do? 

Playing through Dorian’s romance route had brought him immense comfort when his parents and sister couldn’t understand who Renard really was. He might never admit it to anyone else, but it had meant a lot to him and now Dorian is a real living breathing person, not an idea to cling to when he felt alone, like a security blanket. Renard knows so much about Dorian, and Dorian thinks Renard is Solas. It's probably better if he avoids any future weird flirting, it would be creepy, unhealthy, and disrespectful to Dorian to say the least, and could blow his cover and get him killed at worst. Plus it would save him a lot of embarrassment, clearly Renard can’t handle himself around the guy. Or anyone.

...speaking of embarrassing himself in front of people…Renard snaps his head up. He might have a solution to his reading problem! But in order to do execute his plan he’d have to return to the rotunda. He grits his teeth at the thought of returning, but sitting in this room and stewing all day wouldn’t do him any good, he might be tired, but he was itching to do something-- anything! 

So he grabs a book (gotta maintain cover) and steels himself to go back. And soon enough he’s back in front of one of the chantry sisters with a blank notebook from Solas’s desk and a pencil, copying word for word the chant she recites.

A couple hours later he’s back in the rotunda with about twenty chants recorded and a physical copy of the chant of light he nicked. He takes his seat, squares his shoulders, and flips the Andrastian Good Book open with a determined clap. He can understand the words being said, which means Common he doesn’t need to translate an entirely different language just a different alphabet.

It’s hard work and it takes a day and a night, but Renard has few plans for sleep. It feels a bit like translation work for one of his language classes crossed with cracking secret codes he and his sister had made up for each other when they were younger--it keeps him too busy to dwell on nightmares or the fact that he’s living a video game.

He compares his English version of each chant to its Thedosian Common equivalent in the book, luckily the chants are numbered. From there he goes letter by letter and writes out what he believes is it’s Common analogue. 

The next morning after he’s snuck some breakfast from the kitchen he’s back at the desk and he thinks he’s got a veritable English-Common rosetta stone in his notebook. Now to put it to the test. He pulls out the book he took from Solas’s room and begins to decode the script on its cover. It takes a bit of time to figure out the font which is different from that of the chants, but eventually he gets it.  _ Hard in Hightown.  _ He lets himself release a laugh of both mirth and joy; because of course it would be one of Varric’s books, but also, it works! His translation makes sense! Despite his fatigue he’s so excited he has to suppress the urge to do a victory lap around Skyhold. Instead he settles for a jubilant fist pump, which catches Dorian’s eye as he walks in, presumably headed upstairs.

“Solas! What’s has you so excited? Have you finally discovered the miracle of baths?” That sobers him up quickly, because he indeed hasn’t washed up since he got here, which is pretty gross now that he thinks about it.

But his success high refuses to be killed so he slings back, “No, I’ve just finished calculating the probability of you being a nosy bastard and I’m thrilled to discover the answer is one hundred percent.”

“You wound me, that should hardly be difficult to figure out, you needn’t do any calculating,” Renard snorts at that, collects his books and walks past Dorian to leave the rotunda. Dorian calls out after him, “and where are you going now?”

Renard grins and calls over his shoulder, “To take a bath”. Dorian’s amused huff, spurs him forward, maybe Renard  _ could _ survive this and get home without being murdered by a Templar.

 

He’s been working on translating for three days now, and on almost no sleep too, but the work is comforting in its familiarity. It’s not so different from doing French homework, it feels good do something purposeful. He hasn’t found out much useful information, but he is getting better at reading, he barely needs to reference his notebook for letters anymore. Soon he’ll be able to call himself fully literate in Common. During the day, he works his way through various academic texts, (Solas’s handwriting is still difficult to read, so he’s saving that for later), and at night when he’s too afraid of his nightmares to sleep he reads  _ Hard in Hightown,  _ which he is thoroughly enjoying. And when he is too tired to do even that, he meditates, which is at least mildly restful and keeps him from his nightmares.

No one’s really bothered him, though the inquisitor did come to check up on him, she didn’t stay for long, having to drag Dorian off on some mission. Renard has been doing his best to avoid people at all costs, including sneaking into the kitchens for food instead of eating during the communal dining hours.

This morning’s food haul is several pastries, which he’s stored in a wooden bowl, that hopefully no one was planning on using. He’s decided that if he’s going to figure anything about what’s going on he needs to do more than just learn Common, he needs to return to his roots. Which is to say; witchcraft.

After doing his regular translation work for the day he eats dinner and rinses his bowl, and filling it with water he resettles in the rotunda, which is now mostly empty besides the birds crowing above. He lights an extra candle for the aesthetic and dips a finger into the water. Tracing a few homemade sigils for clarity, far-sight, and connection into the rippling surface, he reaches into his memory for a clear picture of Solas. Renard doesn’t scry often, cartomancy being his divination medium of choice, but he has yet to find any cards just lying around Skyhold. But he wants answers, so might as well fuck around and stare into a bowl of water. 

And stare he does, the water stills after some time becoming a perfect, black mirror. Facing Solas in his reflection, distorted in the flickering candlelight he focuses on his question, ‘Where is Solas?’.  If he can figure out where Solas is maybe he can figure out what happened to the both of them and then find a way home.

The staring goes on for a while. Renard chalks it up to his inexperience scrying, he’d only done it once to try and figure out where he’d lost his favorite work shirt and this was much harder. He’s probably trying to see through time or dimensions or something. He keeps looking into the water, but keeping his mind clear and focused is hard when he hasn’t slept properly in a week and his eyes begin to droop. Pressing his nails into his thigh and taking deep full breaths he forces himself to stay awake. As he does this he becomes aware of a strange rustling sound just on the edge of his hearing range. When he tries to ignore it and focus on the water it gets louder and begins to sound more like whispering. Digging his nails harder into his legs he tries to shake it off, but it begins to grow in volume. The water on the surface of the bowl is rippling on the edges and the whispering sounds like someone shouting from a great distance with a lot of echo. His eyelids droop again so Renard forces them open again glaring almost viciously into the bowl as the shouting feels like it's expanding in his head, until, finally:

“SLEEP YOU FOOL!” and Renard collapses into the bowl of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 90 percent sure Solas doesn't have a room in canon and just sleeps on that couch in the rotunda, but I'm putting Renard through so much I want him at the very least to have some privacy lmao.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been a long time coming, I'm finally releasing it into the wild. I hope you enjoy this homage to the favorite tropes of my middle school years, the modern oc in a fictional world and the body swap, except now with a Venezuelan/european queer witch because I just want protags who are like me :^)   
> Additonally, I've proofread this so many times, but I'm not great at catching my own typos, so if you found any, I'm sorry.
> 
> thanks for stopping by, I'd love to hear from you if you got this far!!


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